A Rose as Sweet
by homesickpirate
Summary: England doesn't know what to name America. But as he sits on his bed, an idea begins to form in his head. And soon, he knows just what to name the child.


**This is just based on my weird fascination with names, and also with history. It is my personal headcannon that America was named after King Alfred the great of England. Also, I was trying to correlate the ideas that King Alfred was great, and the country of America (Alfred) was also 'Great'. You tell me how I did.**

**Disclaimer: Oh, how I wish I owned Hetalia...**

England sat, resting his chin on his head thoughtfully. His brows were creased as he puzzled over this problem. For once, France had been right. The boy needed a name.

"_I was named after myself. You were named after your fantasy king. What will you name Amerique?" France had asked him as they had sat out having a picnic. Actually, it was the first time they had peacefully communicated in years. England just leaned back and sighed._

"_I don't know, froggy. I haven't got around to it yet." He turned and studied Francis. "Do you have any ideas?"_

"_Hmmm" France smirked, "Well, you could name him William. You know, after my king who kicked your derriere?" England snorted quietly._

"_Well that's as likely as you winning another war"_

"_Onhonhon. You never know, right England?" France reached out and ruffled England's hair, earning only a scowl and a light slap. He was lucky England was in a good mood and didn't feel like fighting today._

_England turned back to look at the sky. It was so blue, so beautiful, just like America's eyes. His pretty, untainted little colony. As he looked at it, he realized that the sun was already beginning to set. Eyes widening, he jumped up and reached for his jacket._

"_Ah, France?"_

"_Oui?"_

"_I, ah, have to go. America's waiting."_

_France just smiled sort of sadly at England, and pushed himself off the ground too._

"_Take care of Canada, too, si tu plait." He said quietly. England just looked away, awkwardly._

"_I will, France. I promise." He gave France a meaningful look, and France sighed in relief, knowing what he was trying to say before he even said it._

"_Merci." He said softly. "Ah! You are late, you said? Aller!"_

"_Oh, Bugger." England turned away and began sprinting back towards his colony, who he already knew was waiting for him by the front door._

It was about two hours later, and England sat by America's bed, wondering what on earth to call the him, especially in public. He couldn't very well go on with the word 'boy' forever. He looked down tenderly on the sleeping child, and tried in vain to push that one curl out of the way. After a minute of futility, he moved his hand down and touched his cheek, marveling at the softness and innocence and purity. And his heart swelled in pride and in love because he knew that his marvel was his and his alone.

His hair isn't like France's at all, he thought fiercely. It's more beautiful, like the fields of grain, or the kiss of the sun. It reminded him of one of his kings. King Alfred the Great, actually. He had the same golden hair, the same sky-blue eyes-

_England stood before his new king. His eyes were wide as he took in the sheer beauty of the man. There was no doubt why this man had the name 'Alfred'. He was truly a friend of the elves. In fact, he was so graceful, so terribly beautiful that he wondered if his king wasn't actually part elf. He looked down at the ground, realizing how little and weak he was. He wished he was a bigger, stronger country. Something that wasn't a burden for Alfred. Because around this man, he suddenly was ashamed of himself. Something inside of England drew him to this man, made him yearn for his pleasure, the ways his eyes lit up when he smiled, his gentle laugh of a thousand bells. _

_But to his surprise, he saw not the feet of this great king, but his knees. He looked back into Alfred's eyes, his own widened in shock. He could not believe this man was kneeling to him, naught but a child._

"_My King! You can't, It is I who bow to you." He said in awe. His king just chuckled and looked straight back at him with love._

"_Ah, England. I serve you." His king promised on that fateful day, the day he was crowned. And serve him he did. He defeated the French, the Germans, the Vikings- everyone who set foot on his small, pathetic island was wiped out. But Alfred wasn't cruel or evil. He liked to sit in the study and read, and draw. And he was kind and brave and merciful. And as the years went by, England realized that he loved this man, his king._

_It was on his deathbed that England saw him last. The old king was still regal and beautiful as always. But he looked frail, and England knew that he would die. He bowed his head in reverence to the king that had saved his country, made him feel strong._

"_You will be remembered, my king." He promised gravely, tears already prickling in his eyes. The old man just chuckled quietly. It sounded like he was coughing._

"_Ah, don't mind me. Mind yourself. For you will be great England, I know you will." he said with a firmness that few dying men had. And then he closed his eyes, and lay back on his pillow, and England knew he had fallen asleep. So he just stood there with his head bowed, allowing his tears to roll off his face, as his king labored in his breathing._

"_Oh Alfred," he whispered, even though he knew the man would not hear him. "It was you who made me great"_

That was the last time that he had seen his king. Alive, at least. The next time was at his funeral procession, where he commanded the heralds to yell out "Forever reigning, king of heaven, Alfred the Great". That was the first time Alfred had been known as great, and England savored the way it sounded, only sad that his king had died too soon to be recognized properly.

And truly, Alfred had been the greatest. There was no king like him, no true English king who was as comely or graceful or kind, who ever came after. No one who deserved the title of 'great'.

This was the name, England decided suddenly. This was America's name.

"Alfred," he whispered to his colony. "Your name is Alfred". The boy stirred in his sleep, and England took it as a sign of confirmation. He smiled, lovingly at his favorite child. The colony that had given him the title of 'Empire. This innocent, undefiled, pure little child. That had somehow grown to love him, a war-hungry pirate, bloodthirsty and ruthless. This child had even managed to plant a seed of change, of love and care inside his bitter and cold heart. Truly, he was a marvel.

He leaned down to whisper in his ear, "And someday, I pray, you too will be great, love."


End file.
